Pair of Fools
by PenguinOfTroy
Summary: He curses her. He curses himself...And he says his goodbye. A black and white goodbye note to her. To them. To partners. To a pair of fools. Collection of post-ep chapters: 47Seconds/TheLimey/Headhunters/UndeadAgain/Always
1. Pair of Fools

_DISCLAIMER: "Castle" and all its wonderful characters are the property of ABC and Andrew Marlowe. Much as I enjoy playing with them, I unfortunately do not own them. Please don't sue me._

He pours himself a drink – scotch on the rocks – and sits in the dark.

He doesn't want to brood because brooding is conceding the point to her. He won't brood on her account. No, he's not brooding. He's raging.

"There are some things that are better not being remembered." That's what she said wasn't it? It wasn't that she _didn't_ remember. She just _didn't want_ to remember his love. Fine. So be it. He can forget her just as easily.

He can play that game. But this time his own game. He's done playing hers.

She told him she needed time. He gave it. She told him she needed space. He gave it. She told him she had a wall. He pledged a sledge hammer.

And what did she give in return? Silence. Lies.

_She lied._

She looked him in the eye and _lied_.

And maybe he's a hypocrite because he's been lying to her as well. So be it. He'll be the hypocrite. The hypocrite who lied to protect another, while she lied to protect herself.

Better a hypocrite than a coward.

Better a hypocrite than a heartless, manipulative, misleading bitch.

Does Lanie know? He wonders. Do they get together over drinks and laugh about poor lovesick Rick following her around like a puppy while she dangles a treat she has no intention of giving just out of reach?

Can she really be that callous? Can she really be that cruel?

He'd thought no, but now...now what can he know for sure about her? What can he trust when she's proven him so wrong?

All that talk of "next time" and the teasing and the nudging and the smiles over coffee. What were they? All a joke to her? Some funny story she could tell her friends about all the ways she brought a famous author to his knees before her?

He wants to do something reckless. He wants to show her that the joke is on her, to prove that her rejection doesn't cut him to the bone. He wants to pretend that she didn't rip out his heart.

Instead he opens his laptop and pulls up a blank document. And he writes something. Anything. He writes incoherently and without sense, anger and pain poured out onto the page. He curses her. He curses himself, his foolishness. And he says his goodbye. A black and white goodbye note to her. To them. To partners. To a pair of fools.

**A/N - Well, 47 Seconds happened...and this is what you get. Angsty, angry Castle. Big big big thanks to dave-ck who once again motivated me to get this finished and edited my stupid mistakes. **

**As I always say, reviews are very much appreciated. Even a simple "like" or "dislike" warms my heart, and we all could use some heart warming this week.**

**Fight On and You'll Never Walk Alone**


	2. The Bitter Switch

**SPOILERS for The Limey Promo**

Love is not a switch, you can't just turn it off.

He said watch me. And he was wrong.

He can't turn it off. Because when he looks at her, when he sees her smile, he aches. And when he sees that smile falter, questions written all over her face, doubt and confusion drawing lines around her lips, he _aches_.

This is no way to live. Yes, the work is still fulfilling. The victims still move him and the mysteries still demand solving. But this is no way to live. He can't turn it off. He can't turn off his love for her.

He tries to freeze her out. To just be indifferent. But seeing her every day, looking beautiful and alive, eyes lighting up at his presence, it's like a fresh kick in the gut. So he kicks back. He jabs with sharp little asides. He punches below the belt, flaunting women he won't actually touch just to watch her squirm. And he knows it bothers her, but it bothers him more. Makes him hit harder. Because this is her fault.

She can't have it both ways. She can't look at him with desire in her eyes, when her silence, her lies, have made it clear to him that she doesn't actually want him. She can't laugh in the face of his pain by humoring him with meaningless flirtation. And she certainly can't look so _injured_ when he shows how willing he is to move on. It's not fair. It's not right. And he won't allow it anymore.

If she wants to act like she cares, then he'll make her pay for it. And even though her drawn face and sad eyes make his pain that much worse, it is worth it, because it's better than the lie. It is better than the unattainable happiness she taunts him with when she smiles. If he has to suffer anyways, then he'll make her suffer too.

"So where do you draw your inspiration for writing, Ricky? Your books are so – detailed."

His eyes snap up from his plate and glances across the table at his date. This one is a blonde, short, busty and utterly vapid. She keeps trying to run a heeled-foot up his leg but he feigns ignorance. She's throwing herself at him. But he's not interested. He can't be bothered to be interested.

He clears his throat. "Uh, you know, Elise, it really comes from..." In all honesty he doesn't know what to say, because the only writing he's done lately has been inspired by anger and heartache. But he won't tell her that. "People. People are just fascinating. They, uh, they really fascinate me."

She twirls her hair and leans forward to give him a more clear view of her breasts. "Fascinating," she repeats. He has to wonder if she even knows what that word means.

His phone buzzes, sparing him the indignity of saying or hearing another "fascinating."

"Excuse me, one moment. I should take this."

She looks disappointed. He can't be bothered to care.

"Castle," he tries to sound as perky as possible. Beckett is on the line, a body has dropped and she gives him the address. He flirts with the idea of blowing her off, telling her he's busy. But another idea pops into his head.

"Want to go see some of my inspiration?" he covers the mouth piece and asks.

The blonde flashes a predatory smile and answers, "Oh, that sounds like so much fun."

"We'll be right there," he tells Beckett, eyes still on his date, busty and vapid, but still useful.

No, he can't turn off his love. But he can turn up the bitterness and try to drown it out.

**A/N - This fic really was supposed to be just a one-shot, but Castle had other ideas and forced me to continue. And of course Beckett now wants in on the action, though I'm thinking of doing a separate companion piece with her perspective so that this can remain Castle's playground.**

**You know the drill, reviews are always welcome, even something as simple as "like" or "dislike" lets me know how I'm doing.**

**Fight On and You'll Never Walk Alone**


	3. Déjà Vu

**SPOILERS for The Limey Promo**

She actually feels ready.

She catches his eye and it's that "Ah ha!" moment her therapist told her not to expect.

She's seen what can happen when you wait too long. She's see the trauma of possibilities lost. And she's ready to dive in.

And he looks ready too..._Looked_ ready.

But now? Now he's gone. Walked away with a casual brushoff that felt anything but casual. And she's left with a sinking feeling in her gut. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.

It's like déjà vu. She remembers the last time she felt ready. Two years ago, though she can't believe it's been that long. She had finally shaken off the doubt, the doubt that Richard Castle, _The_ Richard Castle might want her as something more than just a conquest. She had built up the courage to put herself out there, to commit herself to more than just casual flirting and sexual tension. And then he was gone. Off to the Hamptons with his ex-wife, with no warning, just that devastating curse of bad timing.

She knows he was going to say something after the Takeover bomb. His eyes were shining with _something_. She knows because she met his gaze for every second, unblinking, full of hope, barely able to contain the premature smile that ached to spread across her face. He spoke about not wanting to miss opportunities, and she allowed herself to believe that those opportunities might be with her.

They were interrupted, as usual, but there was a promise in his eyes. A promise of later. A promise of more.

And then, there wasn't.

There isn't.

He can hardly look at her now. When he does, when she catches him looking out of the corner of her eye, his gaze is harsh, pained. He holds himself stiff and away from her. His responses are short, his demeanor guarded.

Something changed, but she is painfully out of the loop. She's tumbling in a free fall of doubt and confusion and no small amount of hurt.

Because she is ready. She is _so_ ready. And when he looks at her like that – with contempt – she feels her walls rise once more. All that progress undone with one glance. Because she can't bear to think about what could have changed. Or what that change could mean.

And that feeling in the pit of her stomach grows heavier...

It drops out completely when he shows up to a crime scene with a blonde bimbo in tow.

He has his arm draped over her shoulders. She seems to relish the contact, clinging firmly to his hip. He grins like a kid in a candy store.

And with harsh clarity she realizes that she read it all wrong. He wasn't talking about moving forward with her. He was talking about moving on _without_ her.

But with that? With blonde bimbo #2 from an episode of CSI? Really?

She thinks she's going to be sick.

Sick that she waited so long. Sick that she missed her chance again. Sick that he can toss her aside so easily. Sick that he didn't have the guts to tell her to her face that he was done waiting. Because she could have said _something_. She could have told him that she was done waiting too.

He didn't give her a chance.

Instead he taunts her with the exact kind of woman that made her fear being his type.

And yes, this is taunting. Because he brings the bimbo back to the precinct – their space – and he dotes on her, _touches_ her, hangs on her every frivolous word.

"Oh the murder board is so shiny."

"Oh this chair is so bendy."

"Oh Ricky you're so cute."

Every second is agony. Watching them is agony. And even as the initial hurt subsides with the shock, every little moment pricks like a pin, compounding until she wonders how much more she can take.

She swings back and forth between disgusted and crushed, finally settling on humiliated.

Because he keeps glancing at her, gauging her reactions, and try as she might, she can't hide how upset she is. He's made her vulnerable. He knows it. And she can't figure out why he looks so pained and pleased at the same time. She can't figure out why he wants to hurt her.

But most of all she can't shake the feeling that he's punishing her.

And it's déjà vu, as he walks out of the precinct in another's arms, once again leaving her standing in the middle of the bullpen staring after him like a lovesick fool. Blindsided and barely standing. Ready, but still alone.

**A/N - So Kate gets her say and the Misinterpretation Train is chugging along at full speed. **

**As always please review, the long ones are wonderful but the simple "like" or "dislike" is more than enough.**

**Fight On and You'll Never Walk Alone**


	4. Sleep

**SPOILERS for The Limey**

She can't sleep.

So when she's sitting at her desk in the bullpen, coffee-less and cranky, she blames him.

Him and the dumb blonde for wrecking her mood.

She called him out of habit this morning when they caught a new case in the early morning.

But she wished she hadn't, because the call jumped conspicuously to voice mail after two rings and she couldn't help the image that popped into her head – him, in bed, hair tousled, rolling over and grabbing his phone, checking the caller ID, seeing her name, her face and tapping "ignore," then turning back over and curling around the other body hidden under the sheets, a tuft of blonde hair striking against the dark pillowcase.

And again she wishes she hadn't called as she tries to scrub that image from her mind with phone records and financial reports.

"Yo Beckett, find anything?" Esposito calls from the other end of the bullpen on his way towards her.

She looks up and he slows abruptly.

"Alright?"

She's scowling...Oh.

She closes her eyes and pushes it all away, tries to look normal, not like she wants to throw something at the murder board. She schools her features but she's sure that she's failing because Espo is giving her a look. The I-see-right-through-you look.

She changes the subject. Back to the case. Always back to the case. Safe ground. Solid ground. Cases she can handle.

He goes along with it mercifully, though she winces at the concerned glances he and Ryan keep giving her. Like they are afraid she's made of glass...Which she is when it comes to him and his mixed signals. But they don't need to know that. She doesn't want them to know that. What she wants is to finish this case, go home, have a glass of wine and sleep.

But she can't sleep, and it's all his fault.

She went out for drinks the previous night. She could have done a hell of a lot more than that too, had she been so inclined. Extracurricular activities with Colin would have been a more palatable excuse for the bags under her eyes at least. She didn't though. Her date with the handsome Detective-Inspector from England was pleasant enough. But he wasn't Castle...

And somehow the whole thing felt like a betrayal.

She doesn't know why, since he was the one off gallivanting with the bimbo. She has no claim to him, and he has no claim to her.

Yet it still felt like she was cheating...that she's being cheated on.

It stings like she's being cheated on. And it's that sting of inadequacy, the thought that she's not enough for him, that he's found someone else, someone _better, _that keeps her up at night.

* * *

><p>His buzzing phone wakes him. But he doesn't have the will to get out of bed yet. So he grabs at it blindly until the ringing stops, hoping that he managed to hit the ignore button and doesn't have some poor person hanging on the line listening to him sleep. He digs his face deeper into the nest of pillows around him and groans.<p>

He just doesn't want to get up. Not yet. Because when he does he'll have to see her. Beckett. Kate. Beautiful, extraordinary, cruel Kate.

She wants to talk. She wants to _talk._

He doesn't think he can handle a talk with her, because he has a sneaking, aching, suspicion that it'll be The Talk. The It's-Not-You-It's-Me Talk. And much as he already knows, much as he already feels the pain of her rejection, he can't handle her making it real. Concrete. In words. Irrefutable words.

He doesn't need to hear it given voice. He doesn't need to suffer the indignity of her pitying eyes, her victim voice. Her patronizing tone as she hopes that they can "just be friends."

Because they can't. He endured too long as "just friends" when he'd thought there had been an implicit "for now" attached to that description. But now he can't be her friend. He's not even sure he can be her partner.

He'd almost hoped that flaunting Jacinda might...he doesn't even know...show her what she is missing, show her that there are plenty of women who want him. That he _is_ desirable. He'd hoped that that maybe the thought of him being chased by another might convince her that she was wrong.

But it didn't. She was too busy making googly eyes at the impossibly handsome Brit. She let him infiltrate the team - their team. She went off dancing with him. She got all dressed up for him. And he can just see it in his head, him holding her close as they sway on the dance floor. His hand at the small of her back. Her arm nestled on his shoulder, her hand resting at the back of his neck, her fingers toying with the hair at his collar, her cheek brushing against his beard as she leans in to whisper some teasing comment in his ear...

The surge of jealousy ignites his muscles and he turns over violently with a growl. He wants to punch that...that...jerk. For having permission to dance with her like that, for having what he can't. So he punches his pillow with a satisfying whop instead.

And suddenly he's mad at himself for turning Jacinda away when she practically tried to break down the door to get into his loft, his bedroom, his bed. He's mad that he let the thought, the memory of his love for Kate Beckett hold him back.

**A/N - Oh our poor dynamic duo. Just can't get on the same page can they. **

**In case you hadn't noticed, I've decided to continue this with chapters that serve almost as companions to the episodes (as far as I can go along with them) perhaps with some speculation towards the next episode based on promos - I'm spoiler free so there will be no conscious spoilage on my part, but for promo-free people I'll post a warning at the beginning if there are promo references. There will be at least one more chapter related to the Limey coming soon. So keep an eye out. After that it'll depend on if I get sudden inspiration before the next episode in couple weeks.**

**You know the drill, please review. As always "Like" or "Dislike" is more than enough. I want to hear what you have to say.**

**Fight On and You'll Never Walk Alone**


	5. Partners

**Spoilers for Headhunters**

"What do you want to do?" Burke asks in his best therapist voice. The one that makes things sound so obvious and makes her feel like an idiot for not catching on in the first place.

She knows what she wants. She just doesn't know what to do.

What can she do when every step spells potential doom, heartache, embarrassment, pain?

It's like standing in the middle of a teetering rope bridge. The wood creaking ominously below, the dizzying sway as the wind whips by, threatening to flip the entire contraption. Moving forward or backwards, it's all dangerous. So she stands still. Frozen by indecision even though she know that she can't stay there forever.

He used to be there - on opposite end, solid ground. His smiling and inviting hand coaxed her forward, her feet made more brave by his presence. But now he's faded from view. Obscured by fog, she thinks. Or maybe gone for good. The bridge seems never ending. More perilous. Unsafe. She can hear his voice from ahead, but also behind. One saying _come_, the other saying _go_. The whisper of _I love you_, and the growl of _too late._

If only it was so simple as want and do.

He wanted to partner with Slaughter, and she let him because she won't be that girl – the one who's so jealous and petty that she can't give her man space.

Her man? Ha! That's overstating and she knows it. He's not her man. He's never been _her_ man.

It was agony seeing him cavorting with representatives of the National Bimbo Association, but at least she could try to brush it off as none of her business. At least she could lie to herself and live in denial. Because she has no romantic claim to him. Not officially. And that is entirely her fault.

She does have a professional claim though. He's her partner. _Her_ partner. A man may lose interest in a woman, but partners don't lose interest. Partners don't jump ship when something new and shiny like severed heads float by.

But he did. He bribed her with coffee and a smile, got what he needed and found yet another replacement for her.

The bimbo brigade was one thing, but this new partner is something else entirely. The hits keep on coming. And she's fairly certain she'll be out for the count if this continues. TKO'd by his straying.

"I can't talk to him," she whispers, trying to keep a hold off the cracking in her voice. Even here in this safe space, she hates showing weakness.

"Why not?"

"I'm hurt. We're supposed to be partners, but he's..." She shakes her head, dejected. "I think any thing I say now would just make things worse."

"You can't expect things to get better unless you communicate. He can't know what you're feeling unless you tell him."

"Words are his thing. I've never- I don't communicate well. Words always...fall short."

"Words are important, Kate, but they aren't the only way to communicate."

"So what, I need to draw him a picture?" She scoffs.

"You need to find some way to get a message to him. If you aren't ready for words yet, then perhaps you can do it some other way."

She pushes through the rotating door into the sunlight, still ruminating on Burke's challenge. Find a way to communicate.

Alright then. She scuffs her foot against the sidewalk. She'll find a way.

Because that's what partners do. And she knows at least one important thing - she wants him badly enough to get over being hurt.

**A/N - Some might call this short. I choose to call it succinct :D Might do a Castle perspective for Headhunters. We'll see if he plays along. Thanks to fooxoo for the beta.**

**You know the drill, reviews keep me going. And I really do get a kick out of all of you who've embraced my "like" and "dislike" request. So keep them coming please.**

**Fight On and You'll Never Walk Alone**


	6. Tomorrow

**SPOILERS for Undead Again**

He feels like such a fool.

Therapy. All this time she'd been in therapy.

Learning to put one foot in front of the other. Learning to walk again. Learning to love? She's saying it in oh so many words. Isn't she? She's almost ready, almost There.

And he feels like such a fool. Because he'd assumed. He'd assumed so much, too much. He'd thought the worst of her. The absolute worst.

All the while she'd been doing the work behind the scenes - such a Kate thing to do. Just putting in the time without all the fanfare. Letting her actions speak louder than words – spoken or unspoken.

Maybe that's been their problem, that they let the words go unspoken far too often. But now he hears her loud and clear.

She asks for tomorrow. She wants him there _tomorrow_. But they both know it's more than that. It's about tomorrows. Plural. She's thinking about the future. With him.

The undead mask feels so wrong now, because he could not be more alive. The brightness of her smile hums through his veins. The whisper of _soon_ jolts his heart with electricity, excited anticipation. Yes, very much alive.

When he's home and washing away the last bits of the zombie make up it feels so poetic. So perfectly literary. The greens and blues of the face paint swirl down the drain and it's like his doubts and insecurities go with them. He feels clean, the muck of the past few weeks scrubbed from his body and mind until there's hardly a trace.

He's still mad at her. For lying. The lying still stings. Because she couldn't trust him to handle honesty. And that makes her a fool as well. He only ever wanted the truth. Even if the truth meant more waiting. Even if she couldn't say it back. Yet.

But the hurt is less now. Because there's a point to it. A genuine reason, not the cruelty he'd imagined. He got his Yet. And that means everything.

He slides his computer onto his lap and he writes an apology. For doubting her. For questioning her character. For failing to see the signs.

He writes down all the things he'll say to her once that wall is completely gone. He writes a future for them. And it's not like his other fantasies. It's not a story about Nikki and Rook. It's Kate and Rick. And he gives them a happy ending. Because they may be fools. But they're fools together. Partners. A pair of fools. But partners all the same.

Back at the precinct, he promised her tomorrow. But here – in definitive words – he promises her forever. Always.

**A/N – I rushed this one to get it out before the finale tonight. Sorry for the wait but I wasn't feeling it. I'm still not entirely happy with this, but it's the best I've got for now. I hope everyone enjoys the episode tonight :D I know I'm going crazy just waiting. Thanks to fooxoo for the beta.**

**As always please review. Even a simple "like" or "dislike" is much appreciated. Even better, tell me what worked and what didn't. There is nothing better than constructive criticism.**

**Fight On and You'll Never Walk Alone**


	7. Always

**SPOILERS for Always**

Castle. His name rings in her head over and over again. An echo of an echo, still reverberating through her system even though the danger has long passed.

He's with her in the precinct. As she's told to give up her badge, her identity, her whole being. And she does so with the slightest of smiles. This moment doesn't crush her the way she thought it would. It doesn't even hurt to part with these symbols of her life, her purpose. Because they aren't. Not anymore. She sees that now. These pieces of metal no longer define her.

And he's with her when she's packing up her desk. All the mementos of her life here, her second home, get tossed into a bag unceremoniously. But she doesn't dwell on them. His name still consumes her thoughts. There's no room for anything like nostalgia. No room even to consider what will happen to her without a job. Or Esposito or Ryan. Her mind is singularly focused.

In the elevator she breathes for the first time. The air fills her lungs with the crush of comprehension and she flounders for a moment. Everything is changing. It's terrifying and exhilarating and it clutches at her throat at the same time it warms her heart. There is more to life than this.

She leaves the precinct in a daze. She doesn't stop to admire the sight of it for the last time. She doesn't even remember walking out the front door. She just walks. Away.

Her feet carry her some place familiar. Through the pouring rain she moves in a haze. His name still teetering on the tip of her tongue. She hardly even notices the downpour until her hair is already soaked through.

It looks so different in the darkness and the fog, but she knows this is it. The swing set where she spoke about a wall. Her wall. And what it would take to get past it.

She'd been wrong. Because she hadn't needed to tear it down at all. The wall crumbled on it's own when he left, the foundation ripped out from under it by the void he left behind.

She didn't need her mother's killer. She just needed him.

She sits on the seat and she sways, and it's too much like swaying from the side of a building. It brings her back to that terrifying moment when she realized with a cruel clarity that she'd been wrong.

She almost lost herself. She caught a glimpse of the end, hanging from that ledge. And it wasn't the fall that scared her. Nor the promise of certain death. It was the thought of dying alone. Without him. Without ever being with him. With so many words left unsaid and things left undone.

"What do you want to do?" Dr. Burke's voice breaks through the haze with a clap of thunder.

She blinks. Wide awake for the first time since she went tumbling over the edge.

The walk to his apartment is both too long and too short.

She stands outside. Sopping wet. Dripping with rain and tears and the weight of thirteen years of torment and anguish soaked into her clothes. It weighs her down but she's so close now it doesn't matter. She can see his window through the torrents, a beacon calling her forward.

She doesn't know if they'll let her into the building, so she calls his cell.

It rings once, then jumps straight to voice mail.

Dread wraps around her gut. The cold feels colder and her heart races with the fear that maybe she's had one to many chances to make it right with him. That he's finally had enough.

But his name is still everywhere. He's still coursing through her veins and she can't leave now.

She spent thirteen years fighting for her mother. She's not going to give up on him so easily.

The doorman recognizes her. And she takes that as a sign that this is meant to be.

She's shaking from more than just the cold when she finally reaches his door.

"What do you want, Beckett?"

It's his voice, and it's Dr. Burke's voice, and it's her own voice melded together in harmony.

And the answer comes without a second thought. It's been ringing through her head all day.

"You."

**A/N - Are we alive yet? Nope? Yeah, neither am I. Is it September yet?**

**Anyways, I wrote this with Andrew Belle's "In My Veins" playing on a loop. If you haven't listened to it outside of the clip used in the episode I highly recommend finding it on youtube. Thanks to dave-ck, fooxoo, and trinxy for the beta.**

**As always (tehehe) please review. I love to know what works and what doesn't, but you know the drill by now, even a simple "like" or "dislike" is very much appreciated.**

**Fight On and You'll Never Walk Alone**


	8. North Star

**A/N 1.0 – I don't usually but this at the top but in this case it was necessary because THIS IS M-RATED. I'd like to think it's tastefully done but it is what it is. I considered posting it as a one-shot but since this has become my playground for episode reaction it seemed appropriate to put it here. Enjoy. **

**(If you're under 18 or just not comfortable with reading, no problem. There's another A/N at the bottom if you want to skip down and read it, it's semi-important.)**

Her hand is like ice in his as she pulls him through the apartment, tentative and bold all at once.

The warm light shines against the back of her dripping hair and he wonders where she's been. How she ended up here shaking and apologizing and kissing him like he's the last person she'll ever kiss.

_All __I __could __think __about __was __you__._

And all he can think about is her.

Her dark eyes and her lips and her "I'm sorry" and her fingers at his neck and her body pressed against his and his hand on her chest, just over her scar, just over her heart.

His room is unlit and before his eyes have had a chance to adjust she turns and finds his gaze. And they stand still for a beat. Eyes locked in a transfer of a thousand feelings and thoughts and wishes and hopes.

His shallow breath matches hers. He waits. Transfixed by the brightness of her eyes in the darkened room.

He should make the first move. He wants to make the first move. But he just spent the last day putting her out of his mind, carefully placing every last bit of his love for her in a box, sealed by his daughter's beautiful graduation address about moving on.

But now she's here, ripping open that box with her words and her hands and he can't handle it all. He needs her to lead him just a bit farther. Just a bit more from her before he can accept that this is real.

She steps in close, her breath tickling the side of his mouth. She places her palm on his chest, just over his heart where he's certain she can feel the frantic beating contrasting the quiet of the moment. And then she kisses him. It's slow and sweet. Careful. Tender. Perfect.

And the world stops spinning when he brings his hand up to her neck, when he traces his thumb along her cheek, when she slides her hands along his shoulders, up to his collar, to the first button on his blue dress shirt. Her fingers work with reverence as she peels apart each button. He can just feel the whisper of her fingertips at every stop on her way.

She pulls back. Her hooded eyes grab hold of his, unblinking as she pulls the shirt open to his shoulders, like she's opening drapes to reveal a stunning landscape. She drags the fabric down his arms, runs her thumbs along his skin as she does.

The lightness of her touch drives him mad. His breath hitches, his heart skitters along, but he's mesmerized by her eyes. By the silent awe in her face. So he stands fixed. Entranced.

The shirt falls to the floor, a flutter of fabric in the quiet. And she tilts back up slowly to kiss him again.

Their lips move like everything else, at a glacial pace. But he's spellbound. At the mercy of her hands' agonizingly slow exploration of his chest. They are still icy and still shaking, and he wonders through the haze if it's the cold or the moment that's making them shiver, because he's shivering as well. Every inch of him is shaking with the restraint necessary to preserve this moment. This quiet, serene moment.

He's itching to touch her, to frantically tear every piece of clothing from her body and explore every inch of her skin in a frenzy of fingers and lips, to force her against the wall and take her right there, desperate and needy, four years of tension expelled in an eruption of passion.

But he doesn't. She has him in a trance. The smolder of her eyes stills him. The veneration of her touch sends jolts through his skin yet somehow it's hypnotic. Like a dream. A waking slumber.

So he follows her lead and with equal diligence he brings his hands up to the collar of her jacket. He echoes her movements with his own, dragging the sopping material from her shoulders, gliding his fingers along her impossibly soft skin.

She sighs into his mouth as the jacket hits the floor with a thud. He feels her tremble ever so slightly while he finishes the job he started back at the door, parting the last two buttons of her blouse and sliding it from her shoulders.

He's not sure who, but one of them begins the deliberate dance backwards. They take each step together, perfectly choreographed with the fumbling of their fingers as he unhooks her bra, then tugs at her damp jeans and she undoes his belt until they're at the edge of his bed and he's easing her onto the comforter.

Bare skin against bare skin, they sink into the bed, still moving at a solemn, almost sacred pace, but that just seems to heighten the sensation. Every gentle brush of skin sets his nerves on fire. Every taste of her - a mix of sweat and rain - leaves him aching for more.

He revels in her sharp intake of breath with every kiss he plants along her neck. He leaves a trail of them down her collar bone, still further down her now heaving chest to her breasts – one of which he palms and kneads in time with her shallow breathing, while he smothers the other with his mouth, teasing her nipple with his tongue and teeth. She arches into him, her hands brushing through his hair and along his shoulders. Never settling in one place, her fingers traipse over him, until it feels like his entire body is tingling in their wake.

And then he stops.

Bruises. Bruises cover her abdomen. His heart plummets. She'd said she nearly died. _Nearly __died__. _And here's the proof. He looks up, tries to catch her eyes, but they're closed. She's biting her lip, still savoring his touch, and his desire pulses with that image. Just how close had he come to losing her? To losing this?

He lets out a shaky breath, part relieved and part terrified. He won't take this for granted. Not this or any moment with her.

He feathers his lips across the nearest patch of blue – worshiping her bruise in the same way he worshiped her scar. Because there's a salvation in the close call. There's rebirth in the near-death. And with every breath he thanks God for sparing her.

After so many Almosts he's just glad she's alive.

He's engulfed by the overwhelming need to kiss her. To feel her breath mix with his own. To bask in the simple joy of an inhale and an exhale. So he inches his mouth back up to hers and latches on. He suckles on her lip as he shifts to hover above her, feels the whole length of her body against his and it's perfect, the way they fit together like this.

He settles inside of her then, the quiet haze and the boisterous need swirling into an ecstasy he can't describe. And they're moving together, slow, lingering movements, her legs wrapped around his hips, his hands roving up and down and around her side. Her breath is hot against his ear as she whispers something over and over, a mantra of _always_ and _you _until the words blend together and he succumbs to the feel of her, her fingers digging into his back, her hips rolling against his.

Their rapture rises together until their breaths come in gasps and he's not sure who's saying _o h__God_ and who's saying _yes_ and _more_ and _please _because they're melded together in every possible way, swallowing each others' air and breathing each others' words.

She shudders beneath him, clenches around him, cries into his mouth and it's not long before he follows, always following where she leads. Because she's his solid ground, his north star. And though he thought he'd written the final chapter in their extraordinary book, it was never meant to be the end. Just a conclusion to one part of the story.

The first chapter of a much longer tale starts here, with their bodies and hearts and minds united as one. Together, now and always.

**A/N 2.0 – Thanks for dave-ck, fooxoo, and trinxy for being wonderful beta's. And thank you to all the readers who have stuck with me on this ride through the end of this season. It's been a blast and I can't tell you how grateful I am for every review, favorite, and alert. Seriously, you all are awesome.**

**Of course this may not be the end. I could be persuaded to write a morning-after chapter (*hint hint*). But if it is in fact the end then I want to repeat – Thank you. **

**As always, please review. "Like" or "Dislike" or more, they are much appreciated.**

**Fight On and You'll Never Walk Alone**


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